writing.

T is for Thumbtack

He pushed the red thumbtack in firmly and surely, making sure his hand was steady as he applied pressure. Once it was in place, he picked up another red thumbtack and pushed it in again. Blood gushed out a little, he took a cottonball from the stash he prepared next to him and pressed it against the puncture. It would stop flowing in a while. It always did.

The following 10 thumbtacks were red too. He made sure that they made a neat line, with but a hair in between. Sometimes, there would be resistance – the bone and all. But he was patient and knew just how much and when to really push. He also made full use of the mallet.

After he was done with the red thumbtacks. He began with the blue ones. His favourite were the yellow ones. But this is art and he had to use the colours which suited the situation. He was perfectly aware of it. He is an artist after all.

Six hours elapsed and finally he was done. He leaned back on the chair that he was sitting on, folded his arms across his chest and admired his handiwork. This one’s quite good, he thought. Perhaps it was because there was less struggling this time around.

He picked up his glass of water and picked up the day’s newspaper. The headlines read ‘Thumbtack Man Strikes Again!’ and below it an article detailing how the seventh victim was found in the alley behind the embassy with the French flag all over its face. A flag made out of thumbtacks.

He grinned to himself. He quite fancied that piece of work, truth be told. He remembered when he did France, gosh, the blonde was thrilling. And when he pushed the first thumbtack in right between her eyebrows, she fainted. He giggled a little.

But this one, yes, this one was the best. He made a note to himself to increase the tranquiliser dosage next time. Less struggling equals better art.